


Wife in Watercolors

by waitfortheclick



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: F/F, Insecurity, Jealousy, Light Dom/sub, Office Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 04:44:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20252395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waitfortheclick/pseuds/waitfortheclick
Summary: Seek me outLook at, look at, look at, look at meI am all the fishes in the sea-Daredevil, Fiona AppleLorraine knows it isn’t even really Rogers’ fault. He isn’t trying to be heroic and wholesome and handsome. He isn’t trying to seduce Peggy. She severely doubts that boy’s tried to seduce anyone in his life, let alone a woman like Peggy. Peggy’s special. She’s different and difficult and wonderful. Lorraine’s only known her for two months, but she knows that much. Really, if she’s going to act like an imbecile over a woman, it might as well be over Peggy.





	Wife in Watercolors

Of course! Of course she recognized him, of course he had to show up here. Even without his face on the front page Lorraine would have known who he was the moment he approached her stopgap workstation. There he stood, in the flesh -- close enough to touch. All American like a field of golden wheat under a wide blue sky. All beautiful like sunshine and freedom; all aw shucks sincerity and humility. All she could think was:  _ Damn.  _ Damn it. 

So, she kissed him. Christ. The thought of the whole wretched thing makes her physically uncomfortable; her whole body flushes prickly hot with shame. She tries to turn away from the memory. She fidgets with some things on her desk, rearranging and straightening, opening and closing drawers. She’s not entirely sure what her hands are doing; trying desperately to dull the deafening thrum of her pulse. 

It had just been so stupid -- really, terribly stupid. She knows better than that. What had she been thinking? Acting like a child, unhappy because she couldn’t have her own way. Because she’d taken one look at him and oh, God, wouldn’t he and Peggy make a picture?

Lorraine knows it isn’t even really Rogers’ fault. He isn’t  _ trying  _ to be heroic and wholesome and handsome. He isn’t  _ trying  _ to seduce Peggy. She severely doubts that boy’s tried to seduce anyone in his life, let alone a woman like Peggy. Peggy’s special. She’s different and difficult and wonderful. Lorraine’s only known her for two months, but she knows that much. Really, if she’s going to act like an imbecile over a woman, it might as well be over Peggy. 

Still, it’s hard to sit with, the harsh burn of mortification.

It’s just so difficult when it feels like they never get to see -- never get to touch one another. They share the same dinky flat but they’re hardly ever actually in it at the same time. Lorraine, when she’s feeling daring, likes to think she tastes devotion on Peggy’s lips, but she’s haunted by doubts. There’s nothing that binds them together. 

She thinks of her mother’s friends, always asking about her, always wondering. Dropping hints about marriage and children like that’s the only thing she has to look forward to. As if she wants those things, as if those things can guarantee joy or even just stability. As if a marriage certificate actually promises anything, that he won’t hit or step out on you with God knows who and lie to your face. 

Still...

She feels constantly as if she’s just counting down the days until Peggy announces it’s time to stop playing foolish games and leaves her. Until Peggy marries a man like Rogers, a man with whom she can have beautiful children and a real life. 

Lorraine knew from the start she’d never be able to shout it from the rooftops -- never anything so forward -- but sometimes she feels the only time she gets to see Peggy is in her own head. 

She likes to think about having Peggy in a bed, a really nice one. She daydreams about tracing her fingertips over the muscles of her thighs, holding the sweet weight of her breasts, inhaling the warmth of her skin. She thinks about combing her fingers through the soft hair under Peggy’s arms, warm from living pressed up close against her body. She thinks about saying horribly embarrassing things to her like: “I am in love with a woman with the eyes of a doe.”

Or, as long as she’s reaching: The two of them lounging in a park, maybe near a pond. No, a lake, a great big silvery lake. A breezy, clear blue day smelling of grass and sunshine. She would lie on her back on the ground, head pillowed on Peggy’s lap, and watch the clouds travel across all that blue like Spanish galleons racing for land.

She’s shaken from her reverie by Maisie, from two desks over, knocking playfully against metal shelves that hem in her meager work space. Lorraine scowls. Damn her smirking face!

“Yoo-hoo! Agent Carter has asked to see you.” She is really far too smug.

“All right. Thank you!” Lorraine rolls her eyes, stares hard until Maisie gets the message and scampers away.

She finds Peggy In her office, leaning back against her desk, arms crossed over her chest. Lorraine is forcefully, mortifyingly reminded of standing before her school headmistress as a girl, awaiting punishment. She isn’t a child, though, and this is Peggy; Peggy whom she doesn’t believe would ever want to see her hurt or humiliated. She takes a breath to steady her nerves, and it seems to force Peggy to action.

“What in God’s good name were you thinking?” Her tone is stern but pleading, her crumpled face begging for explanation.

“Peggy, I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking --”

“I don’t buy that. Not for one second.” Her arms uncross, her hands grip the desk behind her.

“All right, I was…” Lorraine looks away, clears her throat. When she continues, her voice is small. “I was jealous. I was jealous of him.” It’s painful to say, and it doesn’t seem to buy her much sympathy.

Peggy’s brow creases further. “I don’t like that, you know I don’t like that.” She throws her hands in the air. “I thought you were more mature than this!” Lorraine takes another fortifying breath. 

“I know, and I am terribly sorry. I’ve been asking myself, really... I don’t know what came over me. It was inappropriate and, believe me, I would do anything to make up for it.” Before she can think too hard, forcing it out before she can think better of it. Another hazy, silly notion of an idea of a daydream she’s had about Peggy: “I’d beg, I, I would kiss your shoe, even.” She shrugs self-consciously, smiles a little, and she’s not entirely joking. Not joking, even as she can’t believe she really said it, shaky in her shoes.

Peggy frowns, recrosses her arms. “This isn’t a game, Lorraine.”

“Right.” She clears her throat. “I’m not playing.” The atmosphere in the room changes abruptly; she watches as Peggy inhales hard and quick.

Peggy’s eyes narrow as she watches her back. “You’re really sorry?” 

“Yes.”

“Show me.” Peggy bites her lip, and there’s uncertainty in her eyes, but her voice is rock steady. 

She could… she could walk out right now if she wanted to, she knows this.

Lorraine’s hands tremble as she folds down to kneel on the cold concrete floor. She presses them against her thighs and looks up at Peggy. The look on her face is entirely new: surprised, vulnerable, her mouth slightly open as her breath quickens. It gives her the confidence to bend, placing her palms flat against the floor. She waits just one second more, then presses her lips carefully to the polished toe of Peggy’s pump. Above her, there’s a sharp intake of breath. She lifts her head, to stare, still can’t quite believe the smudged red lip print stamped across the black leather. Then Peggy’s gripping her arms, hard, harder than she maybe means to. Before she can take a breath, Peggy grabs her around the arms, pulling her back up off her knees.

“You’re absolutely mad! Christ, you’ll bruise your knees.” But her eyes are bright, brighter than Lorraine has seen before, and her mouth is open and wet.

“I don’t care!” She doesn’t care, she doesn’t: in her uncertain future she’ll still have those bruises.

“Oh, Lorraine… I do.”

Lorraine grabs her and kisses her, and Peggy makes a noise against her lips like she’s surprised. Like she’s frustrated. The grip she’s still got on Lorraine tightens just to the point of pain; she releases her for only a moment before wrapping her up in her arms. 

It feels so nice there, pressed flush against each other with Peggy’s fingers in her hair and her palm cradling the back of her head. So nice to be held in Peggy’s soft, strong, capable arms; her fingers clever and quick against her scalp. She lets Peggy shuffle her around so she’s pressed up against her desk, the edge digging into the flesh of her behind.

Peggy ducks her head to kiss along her jaw and Lorraine gasps. Peggy inhales, drags her nose up her neck and whispers, “We are absolutely ruining our lipstick.” Breathless in that crisp, practiced accent.

Lorraine laughs and pulls back to look at her, incredulous, but she’s arrested by the sight: waxy red blotted and smeared across Peggy’s panting mouth, her stubborn, defiant chin. She is swept under by a sudden wave of affection, shaken to the core to be allowed audience to such vulnerability. 

Lorraine hisses, “ _ Fuck  _ our lipstick.” She kisses her again.

The moan that rises from Peggy sounds as if she’s helpless to stop it. She licks her hot tongue into her mouth and Lorraine shivers from head to toe. She inhales sharply as Peggy’s deft fingers slip her skirt buttons free, grip the zipper tab and pull down down down. Her skirt puddles around her ankles and Peggy grabs one of her legs under the knee and opens her up wide, bunches up her slip high about her hips. 

Lorraine is dizzy and hot and overwhelmed; she breathes quickly, through her open mouth. She’s never had it like this, not ever. Never with this level of certainty and finesse. More than that, though, something heady, something wild.  _ Passion.  _ That’s the word. Even the other times with Peggy, it’s never been quite like -- Peggy shoves her slip up higher and pushes her hand past the elastic of her underwear and the smallest sound flies out of her chest and thrusts itself from her lips.

“I’m sorry. Oh! I’m --” Peggy shakes her head hard, impatient, and slides her hand all the way down between her legs, where she’s aching and wet. Lorraine’s hips jerk forward and she swings an arm around Peggy’s shoulders and just tries to hold on.

“What do you want?” Peggy murmurs against her jaw, her words slurring together. “What do you want?”

Lorraine makes a high pitched noise and grinds against her fingers, whispers breathlessly, “Fuck me, fuck me, Peggy, please --” Until Peggy covers her mouth again with her own and kisses her quiet.

“Shhh.” She doesn’t say it like  _ shut your mouth _ but rather like  _ I got you,  _ and  _ always,  _ and  _ anything.  _ And Lorraine believes her,  _ oh _ , she believes her. “Here,” she whispers. “Hold yourself open for me.” 

Lorraine replaces Peggy’s grasp on her own thigh, and shivers at the wild thrill of it; Peggy wraps her arm around her waist to pull her closer. She slides her hand down further, so easy through the slick of her, squeezing her clitoris snug between the vee of her fingers. Lorraine breathes hard through her nose, squeezes her eyes shut, and tightens her hold on Peggy’s shoulders.

“Peggy,  _ please -- _ ” The pads of Peggy’s first two fingers rub against her, right up against her hollow core. She bites her lip as she feels herself surrender to the pressure and pull them inside. “Mmf,” she muffles herself against Peggy’s mouth.

“Lorraine,” Peggy whispers hotly. “Lorraine, you must promise to be quiet.” Lorraine furrows her brow and nods frantically. Peggy can’t get her fingers very deep like this, so Lorraine drops her leg to squeeze her thighs together and increase the friction. The  _ clack _ of her heel against the floor startles her and makes her jump. 

“It’s all right,” Peggy soothes, kisses her hair. She bends strategically and angles her wrist so she can thrust her fingers deeper, and Lorraine fumbles behind herself to grip the edge of the desk.

“Mmm!” She presses her lips together and her hips buck. Peggy fucks her harder and her knees go weak, the muscles in her legs turn to jelly. Lorraine looks up and the look on Peggy’s face makes her breath catch: her brown eyes hot and focused, her cheekbones deeply flushed and red smeared around her open mouth. She has to close her eyes for a moment. 

She opens her eyes lets go of the desk with one hand to reach between her legs. Christ -- She can hear it with every upward fuck of Peggy’s fingers but the amount of wet still surprises her. (She doesn’t think she’ll ever get used to going wobbly legged and soaking just from being near Peggy, let alone --) Peggy’s gaze burns right through her as she rubs herself frantically, so slippery she can barely keep the pressure where she needs it. Still, it doesn’t take long, not with the easy, insistent glide of Peggy’s fingers, the deliberate and demanding thrust of them. Not with the way Peggy won’t take her eyes off her, not even for a second.

The pleasure builds and builds, a steady ache, and when she comes she squeezes her free hand hard into a fist so she doesn’t dig her nails into Peggy’s skin. Her head drops back and her sex clenches hard around pumping fingers. Peggy pushes forward fast to kiss the sounds from her lips, and her free hand presses firm between her shoulder blades, presses her close. Close enough that her breathing is restricted just enough that she almost panics, then releases her. Lorraine rubs herself softly through the jolting little spasms, gasping softly, then carefully extracts her hand and reaches behind herself to grip the desk for balance.

Peggy slowly pulls out her fingers; the slide of it still electric. Her mouth drops open and her brow furrows at the sensation. If they were someplace else, some other time, Peggy might fuck them back inside of her, maybe add another. She might fuck her through another climax, and another. Lorraine reaches for the button of Peggy’s skirt with an unsteady hand, shaken by pleasure, knocked about, but Peggy stops her.

“No time,” she shakes her head and smiles sadly. Right, of course, some other time. Lorraine smiles back at her. “We’ve already taken suspiciously long.”

Peggy’s gaze drops to her own hand, palm up, glistening fingers slightly curled, and frowns a little. It’s adorable, like she hadn’t been expecting it. Lorraine grabs her wrist fast and sucks her fingers into her mouth, licks them clean. When she looks at her again, Peggy’s eyes are hot, roving across her face, and her skin burns with it. She shrugs a little nervously and releases her.

Peggy clears her throat and steps back, away from her, just a little. Lorraine feels the loss settle low and cold in her gut, but then Peggy giggles. Honest to goodness. She giggles and wrinkles her nose and her shoulders rise and fall in an answering shrug. Lorraine just barely keeps her jaw from dropping; she doesn’t think she’s ever seen Peggy like this. This specific sort of girlish -- like they’re best pals on a picnic on green grass under the sweet yellow sun, instead of in this cramped and dreary concrete box under the ground. Out in plein air where anyone could see them.

“We’re a god awful mess,” Peggy says, cheerful, warm. “Here.” She gets out her handkerchief and darts out her tongue to wet it. The gesture is curiously reserved after everything they’ve just done. “Hold still.” She gently takes Lorraine’s chin between firm fingers and tilts her face up until she has to close her eyes against the measly, dusty office light. Lorraine holds onto the edge of the desk, flotsam in rocking waters, and is still. Peggy’s breath is steady against her face, chasing goosebumps across her skin. The handkerchief rubs gently around her mouth, disappears, comes back wet again to wipe against her chin.

Peggy hums softly, tilts her head back down, and taps lightly against her cheek. “My lipstick is darker than yours, but I’m guessing yours is back at your desk?” Lorraine nods within the tender confines of her grip. Peggy releases her and steps around to the other side of her desk. Lorraine takes a deep breath, and starts the tedious business of putting herself to rights: she straightens her underwear, pulls her slip back down, steps back into her skirt and refastens it. Belatedly, she thinks to stick her own fingers in her mouth to suck them clean.

Peggy stands before her holding a tube of lipstick, waiting patiently. Lorraine feels awkward, suddenly, realizing she hasn’t said anything for several minutes. What was once a comfortable silence has suddenly made her deeply self conscious. 

“Is --” she clears her throat. “Is my hair all right?” She immediately winces, hearing herself as insouciant, even callous. That’s exactly the opposite of how she feels: fond, stripped bare, heart beating far too close to the surface.

“Let’s worry about your lipstick first, shall we?” Peggy smiles at her indulgently.

“Wait!” Lorraine’s hand shoots out without her say so to grab her wrist. “Kiss me. Just once more?” Her voice warbles slightly, and she shrugs, awkward.

Peggy sighs. “Oh, Lorraine,” she shakes her head, playful. “It’s not such a hardship.” She leans in as she speaks, pressing softly against her mouth, lips forming the pop of the “p” right on top of her own. Lorraine breathes out shakily through her nose and closes her eyes. She opens them in time to watch Peggy’s blurry face move away and come back into focus.

“Hold still,” Peggy whispers. “Be good.” She takes Lorraine’s chin between her fingers again. She presses the lipstick against the center of her bottom lip, drags it across, lifts up, presses it against her upper lip. “Go like this,” she folds her own lips together, miming what she wants Lorraine to do. Once again she feels transported to childhood: playing with a friend, getting into her mother’s makeup drawer. It’s a curious feeling, safe and warm, and it prickles across her scalp. She does as she’s told, and Peggy smiles and says, “Lovely.”

Lorraine watches her face as she reaches up to fuss with her hair. Peggy clucks her tongue. “Oh, it looks all right to me.” She pushes some pieces back from her face, uses her fingers to comb the ends a little. “OK,” she says decisively, lightly tugging Lorraine’s uniform into place, giving her a last once-over. “Try to look appropriately chastised,” she advises.

Lorraine nods, pushes down the rising desperation, tries on a smile. “Right,” she gives a little laugh. “Maybe they’ll think I’ve been crying.” Peggy curls a hand around the side of her neck, strokes lightly with her thumb and awakens her skin with goosebumps. She smiles once more, a little sadly, then steps aside to let her leave.

Lorraine gives her one last little smile, then rallies and steps out the door. She keeps her head down and walks quickly to the washroom, heels click clacking down the hall. She can hear tittering and whispering from the other girls the whole way there until the door closes behind her. She washes her hands quickly, rinses out her mouth and spits into the sink. She checks her makeup in the mirror, and remembers, suddenly, the lipstick she left smeared on the leather of Peggy’s shoe. She wonders if Peggy will remember to wipe it off. She hopes, ridiculously, that she doesn’t. Doesn’t remember, doesn’t wipe it off -- what a silly, dangerous thing to hope.

She comes back to herself and stares at her reflection. Whatever she might have expected to find there -- giddiness, euphoria, even just the flush of orgasm -- has dissipated. When she looks in the mirror, what remains on her face is only melancholy -- that sure and steady friend.

**Author's Note:**

> I keep rewriting this and I still am not totally happy about it but w/e, w/e.


End file.
